He returned to his desk, flipping open my file to make a note. “That, my dear, is precisely where we need to be. It may not make sense to you now, but it will. And when it does, you’ll have experienced what we call a breakthrough.” Chuckling, he glanced up at me. “Can you believe I spent over ten years in school learning that?”
I laughed as well, but it didn’t sound genuine. I had a feeling that this breakthrough was going to take a lot of work to reach. As I left Dr. Iverson’s office, I found myself terrified of what we might uncover.
Chapter Nine
Day three of therapy and my new medication dawned no better than the first two. I peeled myself out of bed, and endured a pounding headache all the way through showering, taking my medication, getting dressed, and breakfast. I visited the omelet station, where I ordered one filled with bacon and cheese before grabbing a few slices of toast. I worked on my group therapy journal entry while eating, and was surprised to realize when I was done that I’d finished half the omelet and a whole slice of toast. Logging it in my journal, I smiled. My headache was abating thanks to my omelet and the aspirin Sheila had given me along with my vitamins.
Just like the day before, pushing myself through my morning routine caused me to feel better, and the fatigue slowly melted away. After my workout, shower, and lunch, I made my way to group therapy. Despite feeling better physically, anxiety had my stomach in knots over this session.
How would people look at me after watching my meltdown the other day? Would Royce single me out today and try to encourage me to read my journal entry out loud? Would just the sight of him push me toward irrational anger again?
As I joined Dawn in the same area we’d sat in last time, I found myself dreading encountering him again. While he seemed like a nice guy who genuinely cared about the people he counseled, I couldn’t allow myself to trust him. A guy like that had no idea what it was like to go through the hell I was enduring at the moment. How could he possibly understand? He was just as clueless as my other friends who—despite their best intentions—had no notion of how to go about helping me.
At least Dr. Iverson had a clinical background. His specialty was delving into my psyche. From what I’d gathered, group therapy was about self-image. Of course a guy who looked like Royce could smile and talk about seeing yourself the way others do when he had the face of a model and a body that looked like it had been chiseled from a rock.
Just get through it, I told myself. It’s only twice a week for a few months. You can do this.
Royce entered a few minutes early this time. With my back to the door, I couldn’t see him, but I could feel the way the energy in the room shifted once he had come into it. The low murmur of his voice as he talked near the drink station with a couple of the guys in our group was deep, resonant. The back of my neck prickled, and I became aware of his position in the room at all times.
He took his place, and the aroma of coffee tickled my nostrils. From the corner of my eye, I noticed the paper coffee cup in his hand. Sliding his backpack to the floor, he glanced around the room, nodding at a few people and flashing his bright smile.
“How’s everyone doing today?”
A few murmured responses came from various people seated around the room as Royce took a sip of his coffee.
“Okay, first things first. Does anyone here have a milestone or a personal accomplishment they want to share?”
A few hands went up, and one by one various group members told us their victories. No matter how small the milestone sounded, the people who’d accomplished them seemed so proud. One girl erupted into tears as she told everyone she’d gone one entire day without purging—her first in an entire year. We applauded politely after each person, and when the last one had gone, Royce took over again.
“This is good stuff, you guys. For each of you, the road will be different. You might not think these little successes mean much, but you have to put it into context. If today is better in any way than yesterday, that’s commendable … it’s something we want to celebrate and acknowledge with you. The alternative is going backward, and none of us want that, right?”
The response came in the form of various nods and murmured agreements. Royce leaned back in his chair and took another sip of coffee.
“All right, who did last night’s journal assignment?”
Hands went up around the room, the majority of us having completed the entry. I hesitated only a moment before allowing my hand to go up as well.
“Nice,” Royce said, his tone laced with approval. “That’s almost all of you. Who wants to read theirs first?”
To my surprise, Dawn raised her hand. Royce’s eyebrows shot up … apparently, her willingness to participate had shocked him as well.
“Dawn, it’s been a while since we heard from you,” he said. “You have the floor.”
With a bright smile she stood, producing her notebook. The cover was bent and the edges frayed as if she hadn’t taken very good care of it. When she flipped it open, I noticed she had doodled a hand holding up the middle finger on the first page. I stifled a smirk while she flipped the pages, stopping when she found the entry in question.
“Dear Bulimia,” she began. “The following are a list of things you have taken away from me. Love handles and a flabby gut. Oh, and my gag reflex … that sure comes in handy when I’m getting lucky. Thanks to you I give the best blowjobs in the county.”
Hands went over mouths, and a few giggled and snickered at Dawn’s joke. Wrinkling my brow, I looked on, uncertain of where she was going with this.
“Oh, and let’s not forget about periods. Which means you also took away cramps and bloating, and saved me from wasting money on tampons. I figure in a few years you’ll have also taken away my teeth, and thank goodness. Then I won’t have to bother brushing them … come to think of it, my blowjob game will increase tenfold. So … thank you, Bulimia, for the gift of a flat stomach, no period, and the other thing that’ll have the boys lining up around the block, despite the fact that I’ll be a toothless skeleton with horrible skin.”
More laughter rang out, despite the fact that Royce was obviously not amused. He’d sat his coffee aside and leaned forward in his chair, elbows braced on his knees. He propped his chin on one hand and stared pointedly at Dawn as she swept into a dramatic bow for her applauding audience. Once she took her seat, everyone looked to Royce and waited for him to continue. A few still chuckled and giggled, though even those sounds died away once they realized he wasn’t laughing.
Inclining his head, he continued staring at her until her smug grin faded.
“Funny stuff,” he murmured. “You certainly achieved your goal, which was to have people laughing at your jokes instead of seeing the truth.”
Dawn clenched her jaw and averted her gaze from him. “What truth, man? It was just a joke.”
“It’s always just a joke with you, Dawn,” he retorted. “But the truth is, you use sarcasm as a defense mechanism, and it isn’t a very good one. Everyone deals with this in their own way, but some ways aren’t helpful, they’re harmful.”
Rolling her eyes, Dawn leaned back in the chair, crossing her arms over her chest. “If you say so.”
Shaking his head as if giving up, Royce turned away from Dawn. “Let us know when you’re ready, Dawn. We’re here … like always.”
An uncomfortable silence stifled the atmosphere, and I noticed most of those who had laughed at Dawn’s little joke appeared ashamed of themselves now. Royce cleared his throat and sat up straight again.
“Okay, now who’s next?”
We spent the rest of the session listening to others read their letters out loud. I had put a lot into my letter, but still wasn’t ready to read it out loud in front of a group of people I barely knew.
Once everyone had finished, Royce stood. “Thank you all for reading those. I appreciated your openness and honesty. What I wanted everyone to get out of that was this: your goal in leaving here is recovery, and for most that mea
ns living with whatever disorder you’ve been diagnosed with. There may always be urges that come when stressors or triggers happen, and that’s okay. It’s normal. The difference between that, and where you all begun, is a huge one. The key is to live with the disorder, not have it rule your life. Most of you ended your letter with some really good action steps toward recovery, which was good. Don’t forget, as we were reminded in the beginning of our session, that even our smallest accomplishments make a difference in getting us to that place.”
Pulling out his cell phone and glancing at the time, he smiled. “Well, time’s up. No journal assignment this time; I’ve got another exercise in mind for our next session. You guys enjoy the weekend.”
I took my time standing and gathering my things. Everyone else filtered out of the room in twos or threes, until only Royce, Dawn, and I were left. The two of them stood near the door, and Dawn looked as if she’d rather be anywhere else but standing there, talking to him. His face showed the same concern it had when he’d last spoken to me, while Dawn had completely shut down. I could see exactly what he had pointed out—Dawn was defensive, and it showed in her body language. I made my way to the coffee area, deciding I couldn’t very well walk past them through the door while they were having what appeared to be an intense conversation. By the time I’d stirred sweetener into my coffee, she was gone, and Royce had headed back across the room to grab his stuff.
Noticing that I had remained, he glanced up at me as he knelt to grab his backpack. “You stayed the whole time.”
Smiling, I nodded. “You were right. It was a little easier this time.”
He slung the bag over his shoulder and stood. “Good. Soon, you’ll be the first to raise their hand when I ask for people to read their journal entries.”
I bit back a laugh. “Is it that obvious?”
He grinned, and my belly did a little flip. God, he had the perfect smile. “Is what obvious?”
“The fact that I’m that girl?”
Shrugging, he came a bit closer, pausing just in front of me. “Kind of. I mean, your notebook is still in perfect condition, and I have a feeling it’ll remain that way until your time here is up. Your handwriting is also some of the best I’ve ever seen, and I only caught a glimpse of it the other day.”
This time I didn’t hold in my giggle. “What can I say? I’m an overachiever.”
“That means you’re probably going to kick the crap out of this thing.” Glancing back at his phone, he gave me an apologetic look. “Almost time for my next session. See you later?”
I nodded. “Yeah … later.”
He patted my shoulder as he walked by, and his masculine scent remained even after he’d gone. Turning to watch his retreating back, I felt the words I’d been holding back burning in my throat. Before I could stop them, they tumbled out.
“Graduation.”
Royce heard me and paused, turning back. “What was that?”
“Graduation,” I repeated, staring down at my feet. “That’s what bulimia took from me. I’m supposed to be graduating this month … instead, I’m here after flunking out of almost all my final semester of classes. All my friends are moving forward without me, and I’ve just … stalled.”
His nostrils flared as he inhaled, his gaze never wavering from me. His stare held something—not pity, though, something else. Understanding, maybe?
“Sometimes, what we see as a setback is really a redirect. It sucks now, but in the end maybe there’s something waiting for you that you couldn’t have gained if things had gone the way you’d planned.”
“You seem so sure of that,” I replied.
“That’s because I’ve seen it happen,” he stated, before finally leaving the room.
After a few seconds, I followed, parting ways with him in the hall—heading toward the elevator while he entered another one of the group therapy rooms. I mulled over what he’d said, and hoped with all my might that he was right.
An hour after dinner, I found myself back on the therapy floor. I’d been adhering to every step of my treatment protocol, with one exception. I had yet to decide which adjunct therapy program I wanted to join. Willow Creek offered everything from cooking and music, to gardening and yoga. I’d been reading through the booklet given to me during my first meeting with the doctors, and had yet to settle on anything.
Standing in the hallway housing the various therapy rooms, I watched others come and go. A door to my left was marked with a sign that read ‘Wholesome Cooking’. Since I had yet to work through my issues with food, I thought it best to avoid cooking for now. Another door offered pottery, but I couldn’t think of anything more boring, so I kept walking. I paused in front of the third door, behind which yoga was about to take place. I was already dressed in sweats, and the sign said yoga mats were provided inside. Maybe it would be relaxing.
I had just placed my hand on the knob, when Dawn appeared at my side.
“There you are. I’ve been looking for you since group. Where have you been?”
I turned to face her, noticing she looked bright-eyed and cheerful. She was smiling, and practically bouncing up and down as if anxious to expel some pent-up energy. I knew that look—that vibe. She’d just purged, and was still on a high from it.
“I’ve been … around,” I replied, not wanting to admit I’d been avoiding her since her little stunt during group.
Pulling her hair up into a ponytail using the rubber band around her wrist, she rolled her eyes. “Can you believe Royce? I mean, geez, it was just a joke. The guy is hot, but he’s got a stick up his ass longer than a flagpole.”
Despite my own confused opinions concerning Royce, her insult caused me to feel indignation. “Or, maybe he just really cares about the people in his group, and doesn’t appreciate you making something so serious into a joke.”
She scowled, hands going still in her hair. “What the hell is your problem?”
Shaking my head, I found I couldn’t even look at her. Maybe it was because she scared the hell out of me. This was who I could become if I didn’t get my own issues under control.
“Why are you even here, Dawn?” I asked. “Do you even want help?”
Lowering her hands, she braced them on her narrow hips. “What are you, my therapist now? Because I’ve got enough of them, I don’t need another one.”
“What you need is to start taking this seriously,” I replied.
“What I need is a friend!” she snapped. “But you’re too busy judging me to be that.”
I sighed, pressing a hand against my forehead. A headache was starting to form. “If I wasn’t your friend, I wouldn’t tell you the truth. Royce was right … there is nothing funny about any of this.”
“God, you really are a dweeb,” she scoffed, brushing past me and moving toward the yoga room. “Do me a favor and find someone else to preach to. You’re boring me.”
She entered the room and slammed the door behind her, leaving me out in the hall. I clenched my hands into fists at my sides to keep them from shaking. Guilt began to gnaw away inside my gut, and I turned away from the yoga room. I knew better than to attempt to bring up Dawn’s disorder knowing she’d just finished purging. I’d been in her shoes far too many times myself, and knew how agitated it would have made me to have someone ruin that sweet bliss I felt afterward. I’d lashed out at my own friends plenty of times. My disorder had changed me in many ways, turning me into someone I didn’t recognize. Of course Dawn was the same way. I probably had no idea who she actually was, and that made me sad. The real Dawn was trapped, and I had no notion of how to help free her, when I was still trapped myself.
Moving on down the hall, I continued searching for something to do to distract me from my turbulent thoughts, and my guilt over the confrontation with Dawn. At the end of the hall was a door marked simply ‘Art’. Inclining my head, I studied the word for a full minute before making a move to open the door.
Inside I found a tall, willowy woman with mahogany skin and l
ong braids hanging down her back. She wore a loose, flowing top that bared one shoulder, chunky earrings, and clinking bracelets on each arm. With a big smile, she came toward me.
“Welcome,” she said in a soothing voice. “I’m Joy, and this is the art therapy studio. Have you ever studied art before?”
Glancing behind her, I found rows of canvases with people seated before them. On the far side of the room, long tables held sketchpads, pencils, and charcoal. A door hung open into another, smaller room, from which loud clanking sounds emitted—a sculpture studio, I supposed.
Bringing my gaze back to Joy, I nodded. “Yeah, but it’s been a while.”
Placing an arm around me, she guided me farther into the room. “I hope you’ll feel at home here. When I’m not teaching patients who are new to art, I’m here to offer my critiques, as well as to guide you in any form of self-discovery you may embark on while in my studio. I won’t get in your way if you want to be left alone, and even when I’m not here, these doors are always unlocked. You’re free to come and go as you please. What form of art have you studied?”
Gazing longingly at the canvases, I sighed. “I used to paint.”
“How long has it been?” she asked, steering me toward the canvases.
A sinking feeling in my gut caused me to feel heavy as I answered, “At least five years.”
Patting my shoulder, she turned me to face one of the blank canvases. “That’s not so bad. I’m sure you’ll knock the dust off in no time.”
I stood staring at the canvas for a long time before realizing Joy had left me alone. I could hear her soft voice from across the room as she paused to critique a student’s painting. The clanking sounds from inside the sculpture room continued. Glancing down at the easel, I let my gaze roam over the paint cans and brushes. The scent of paint brought back memories, some of which brought tears to my eyes.
It had been so long since I’d held a brush, I wondered if I’d even remember how to use one. The blank, white space of the canvas stared back at me until I lifted one of the brushes. Lowering it toward the black paint bucket, I found comfort in the familiar.
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